Thursday, December 31, 2015

This morning I read through my Facebook feed, noting Happy New Year wishes and the sharing of plans for the evening. There seemed to be a 50/50 split between staying at home and going out to party. I freely admit the very idea of partying at midnight gives me the shudders.

I've been looking back, way back to the time when I was a youngster. I don't remember any particular celebrations for New Years until I was in my teens. There might have been some, but they weren't very important to me. Our family was what was known as a 'religious' family so drinking and dancing weren't our way, anyway.

I do remember the Watchnights of my mid-teens, though. As I've mentioned before, it was a very turbulent time. The body count from the Vietnam War was posted every night in the upper left hand corner of the TV screen during the news. The numbers were a constant reminder of our soldiers at war. The civil rights wars at home were no less disturbing. Riots, assassinations, burning cities, murders all led to instability and insecurity. Young people held demonstrations against all sorts of things. Woodstock shook up the establishment.

The young of today think they are living in uncertain times. Every generation believes that. Every generation has their own demons, their own problems to face.

But I was talking about my times...

New Years parties were mostly for the wealthy and celebrities. Every day folks might have a small dinner or something like that, but 'good' people didn't go to bars or clubs. They celebrated with family and friends.

Our family attended a church that held a Watchnight service every New Years Eve. We arrived at church around 8 PM for a pot-luck dinner. I always loved pot-luck dinners at church because all the women brought their best dishes. It was a feast. After dinner, some folks visited while others play board games. And then around 11:30 everyone went upstairs to the sanctuary for the Watchnight service. We sang hymns. Several people read passages from the Bible that they found relevant to hope for the New Year. And at midnight we prayed for peace and compassion. After a last hymn, everyone went home.

I can't say if our celebration was better or worse than any others. But when we woke up on New Years morning, we faced that day with renewed hope. Perhaps, that's all we can really do. Face each new day with hope.

Monday, December 28, 2015

As the end of the year approaches, some folks--all right most folks--resolve to lose weight in the new year. And probably 99.99% of them don't succeed. There are a lot of reasons for that. But I imagine the number one reason is lack of commitment. Standing in front of a mirror, assessing the form and figure does not make a commitment. Huffing and puffing as you climb a flight of stairs doesn't either. The truth is... long term commitment to changes of lifestyle usually only happen after a catastrophic event. Heart attack. Stroke. Diabetes.

Some people refuse to buy bigger clothing when their old things no longer fit properly. They believe the discomfort of ill fitting clothes will serve as an incentive to lose weight. And they're mostly wrong. All that happens in the end is you look like you're bursting out of your clothing. If you never leave the house, sloppy sweats and tee-shirts are one solution, but if you work out of the home, tightly fitting clothing with gaping button holes and stretched zippers...well, it's not attractive.

At that point, I support bigger baskets.

No, it's not giving up, giving in, or any of that other nonsense. It's maintaining a positive outlook while you get your act together. Dieting and exercise take a long time to show results--unless you're only working on about ten pounds. For those of us who are looking at a lot more than that, the commitment might take as long as a year or two. In the meantime, there's absolutely no reason to be uncomfortable or unattractive while we're working on our resolution. In fact, there's every reason to do everything we can to heighten our positive outlook on life.

So. Bigger baskets. Attractive baskets with fancy weaving and sturdy underpinning. Uncomfortable people are unhappy people. Get some brightly colored baskets. Colors enhance the spirit. And search out the occasional unusual basket. Something unique that makes you feel special.

There's no reason to choose A or B. Do both. Use that Christmas money to get some fabulous baskets.

Sunday, December 20, 2015

Christmas 2015. This is the year of unmet expectations. It's the year of discontent, the year of greed, the year of I-want-more. The difficulty with expectations is this: they can never be satisfactorily met. Never.

I believe this is true because so often we hitch our expectations to a price point. One anniversary the hunk brought me a Hersey bar (regular size). A neighbor happened to be present when he handed me the plastic bag from the grocery store and she expressed strong disapproval because it wasn't a BOX of chocolate. She saw his gift as cheap. I saw the wonder of him actually remembering it was our anniversary!

When the Thanksgiving/Christmas/pick your holiday season rolls around, folks lose their common sense. They rush out to the stores, spending money they don't have, to meet expectations that are greedy and foolish. Why do we foster such expectations?

There are soooo many ways to celebrate the holidays. Yet we teach our children the fine art of demanding more, more, more and struggle to meet their demands. Then, the time rolls around when we can't possibly meet their expectations. What do we do then? You see, there is a PRICE for unrealistic expectation.

The meanings of holiday celebrations are lost in our rush to provide more, more, more. It doesn't matter whether it's a foolish embarrassment of food (when folks around us are going hungry) or a gaudy display of decorations or so many presents we don't have room to put them under the tree. What is that all about?

A few years ago, my parents were with my dad's siblings for Christmas. They made a pact that they wouldn't spend more than $2 per person for their gifts to each other...including the wrapping. Then they struck out to see how far their ingenuity would take them. My dad is eighty-five years old. He grew up in an era when ONE present was a big deal. His mother told us the story of the year when she and her sisters received one doll to share. They thought it was miracle.

When we allow our expectations to get out of hand, we pay a terrible price. We lose our appreciation of the simple pleasure of receiving a gift. When was the last time you really took pleasure in something someone gave you? How long ago was that? Too long, I bet.

Friday, December 18, 2015

Home. What is the definition of home? It isn't just shelter. Some folks who have shelter don't really have a home. Because...home is permanent. It's a place not only to live, but to feel settled. In our country there are a lot of homeless folks. Some of them are sheltering with friends or family, but where they're living isn't home.

I suspect we've lost sight of that fact--lost sight of the meaning of home. It's not just a place to sleep and eat. It's a place you feel secure, and if you're staying with someone in their home, you're a guest (welcome or not), but you're not home.

I know of a couple authors who are completely homeless due to circumstances they can't control. It doesn't take much. Catastrophic illness. Loss of a job. Loss of income. And with shocking suddenness you're living in your car, trying to stay warm as you huddle beneath a pile of blankets.

We hear a lot about homeless folks across the planet, but very little about the homeless in our country, except for the marginalized due to drugs or mental issues. No one talks about the tent cities of homeless families on the outskirts of our cities. No one considers the families who've moved back home with grandparents or other family members out of desperation, often living in crowded (possibly illegal) circumstances so they're not out in the cold. They keep their living conditions secret so they don't lose their children to the foster system.

When we visualize the homeless, we think of drunks or addicts sleeping on the sidewalk, but that's just a tiny tip of the iceberg. This Christmas, there will be incredible numbers of children who won't wake up to heat or food or running water. A Christmas tree with presents beneath it is just a fantasy they might hear about in school. For them, being warm with food to eat would be a miracle. Having a home is an untouchable dream.

When we sit down to eat our Christmas dinner, maybe just this once we should acknowledge that this isn't the norm. It's a privilege...because we are home for Christmas.

Saturday, December 12, 2015

The
first time I heard this song was at my oldest daughter's Christmas
pageant the year she was in fourth grade. The elementary school had no
place big enough to hold the pageant so it was held in the high school
auditorium. The program was creative and joyous and enjoyed by all the
parents and families.

Near the end of the evening,
teachers dressed as reindeer took the stage with a rolicking skit and
song. As I was enjoying it, awareness of a shuffle and hiss crept in
and I realized that the children were silently lining the walls around
the auditorium.

The lights went out. A deep silence filled the huge room.

And then one young voice soared in the darkness. "Let there be peace on earth..." A tiny light flicked on lighting her face.

A few more voices joined in...just a few from points all around us. "And let it begin with me."

More
lights. More voices until we were ringed in light and earnest small
voices singing about peace on earth. I think about that song often. I
think about how we still don't understand the underlying truth of the
words..."let it begin with me" for peace does not begin with warriors.
Peace is protected by warriors when all else has failed. Peace begins
with each of us.

Most people believe that peace is an
absence of war. That isn't true. Peace is an absence of conflict. And
true peace will not arrive until we as humans refuse to countenance
abuse, intolerance, genocide, greed, and famine. As long as we turn
away from the less fortunate ignoring the needs of the many in favor of
the wants of the few, there will be no peace on earth.

Monday, December 7, 2015

Christmas 2012. Over the last few days I've read several social media posts and
statuses where adults are mourning their lack of Christmas (gifts,
lights, tree, decorations, etc.) They're not mentioning the lack for
their children's sake. No...they're speaking up for their own lack.

Since
this is something I can speak about from vast experience, I had to have
my say. For the last innumerable Christmases (not to mention birthdays,
Mother's Day, etc., etc.) I could count all my gifts on one hand. Some
years I didn't need even a finger to count. And yet, I feel blessed.

I
have four reasonably healthy children with their attachments, one
healthy husband, two still independent parents, and three healthy
siblings with all the attachments--spouses, children, grandchildren.
Speaking of grandchildren, I also have four brilliant, healthy ones of
my own. Plus a new one this year!

None of them live anywhere near us. But I love them and I am blessed by their very existence.

I
have shelter. I have food. I have everything I need to be comfortable,
plus some to spare. It was not always so. There were years when I
wondered how we would feed our children, but that is not the case this
year. And so I am blessed.

I have a closet full of
decorations for the holidays. This year I chose not to haul them out.
But even if that closet was empty, it wouldn't leave me less blessed.
Christmas isn't about decorations or carols or gifts. It's about love.

For
those of you feeling loneliness or depression, my heart goes out to you
because you are devoid of the greatest of gifts--love. Love for
yourself. Love for another. Love for your neighbor. If you have any of
those, you are blessed.

Sunday, December 6, 2015

For those who follow my blog, you know I post several Christmas
Vignettes from my past throughout the month of December. Mostly, I do it
to remind myself of all the blessings I've been given through the
years.

Christmas 1959.
I was ten years old. Our family lived in Globe, Arizona, but we had
traveled by automobile to Gary, Indiana. It was before the days of
interstate highways and my parents drove many hours, late into the
nights, to arrive by Christmas. My
younger brothers and I occupied ourselves by discussing and boasting
about the snowmen we were going to build when we arrived “up North.”

We
arrived safely (our first miracle) in the cold pre-dawn hours. It was a
cold, damp, windy morning with nary a snowflake in sight. Dad stopped
at a gas station so that we could freshen up. The restrooms were
unheated, providing us with an excellent reason to speed through our
clean-up. With
our faces washed and our hair combed, so that we were presentable, we
piled back into the car and traveled the few blocks to my Aunt Betty and
Uncle John’s house.

There, as we shivered under a barely lightened sky, my Dad was struck by an inspiration. He
gathered us in a tight group on the small front stoop—and at 6:00 AM—we
began bellowing out the strains of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”

Now it stands to reason that SOMEBODY would want to shut us up, but nobody came. Dad led us into a second verse, urging us to sing louder.

Still no reaction.

The
wind whipped up, cutting through our light coats. Lips turned blue and
strands of hair blew across our eyes as he led us through a third
teeth-chattering verse.

Nobody
came. Mom rang the doorbell as he launched into the first verse again.
Uncle John flung the door open and demanded, “Who is it!” before he
recognized us and invited us in.

Later
there were a few chuckles when he described his mad dash from room to
room searching for the radio that someone had left on.During
our visit, my brothers and I waited in vain for snow, knowing we only
had a few days to spend there. At last, our hopes for snow dashed, we
headed home. Oh,
we had a great time milling around with our cousins, roaming in small
packs from room to room, but in some small secret place within, a little
snow would have been perfect.

After
a long boring trip, suffering from holiday letdown, we arrived home
safely (another miracle). Dad parked in front of our small house. We
sat in the car staring out the foggy windows in amazement at our
snow-covered yard. The cactus plants in the corners had spiky snow
beards. There wasn’t enough snow to build a snowman, but we had a great
snowball fight before we unpacked the car.

Saturday, December 5, 2015

The shack
was the smallest home on the short gravel road.At first glance its origins as a storage shed were obvious.A quick second look revealed the crooked
mismatched windows and a shadowy doorway with the torn screen door that flapped
idly in the cold fitful wind.

Inside it was dark and cold, so cold the water dregs in a
dirty cup on a crate next to the sagging bed had a thin skin of ice.The man stretched out in the bed struggled to
breathe, wheezing and groaning with each breath.He shivered as he huddled beneath ragged
blankets and two old, dirty coats piled on him for warmth.Snow flakes whirled through the broken window
pane above the bed, settling in the worn fabric folds covering him.

In the tiny bathroom, a desperate conference occupied the
old man’s companions.Harold the rat moderated,
earnestly leading the discussion about what to do for Otto, their human
sleeping in the next room.

"He needs a doctor," Harold growled."We need to call 911."

"No one will come because none of us can tell them
what's wrong."Sally Squirrel
sighed, close to losing her patience.Harold just wouldn't listen."In the TV shows, the operator always asks what the emergency
is.We can't tell them."

Mick, the chipmunk tentatively cleared his throat."Siggy could bark."

Harold's whiskers bristled and he snorted in
disgust."And what good will that
do?"One ear, ragged and torn,
twitched in agitation.

"It always worked for Lassie," Mick's wife,
Daffy retorted while pulling her scrap of blanket closer to her thin chest."It worked for Benjy, too."

"Those are TV dogs.Of course it worked.TV isn't
real, you know," Siggy woofed softly."I don't mind barking, mind you, but I doubt that it would do much
good.Besides, even if the emergency
people came, that wouldn't solve our problem.How are we going to let them know who he is?How are they going to know he's the Christmas
Angel?If they just think he's a bum,
nobody will ever know how generous and unselfish he is.And his family might not find him."

Gloom settled over the small group.Then Daffy hesitantly offered, "If we
could get his treasure box open, we could place one of the money bundles on the
bed with his red coat and hat.There can't
be that many red cowboy hats or red and green coats made from a Navaho blanket
in Cleveland and they'll take a closer look because of the money."

"How do we get the box open?"Sally's reasonable question was
unanswerable.They had no idea where
Otto had hidden the key.

Siggy sighed gustily and softly padded from the dank
bathroom out into the main room.The
others could hear faint clicks and scratches.Then Siggy reappeared with a battered basket stuffed with odds and ends
clutched precariously in his mouth.He
dumped it on the floor in the center of their little circle and tipped it over.

Pitty Paw, a mottled gray cat, who remained silent until then,
patted through the rag-tag collection until she spied a broken nail file."Aha!Isn't this what that silly woman on CSI used last week?"

The whole group studied the broken file dubiously.Finally, Sally slowly nodded."It might work.The rest of you keep looking through this
junk while Pitty Paw and I go try to open the lock."

Sally and Pitty Paw went out into the main room and
trotted briskly over to the bed.Wiggling
through the small space between the boxes stuffed under the bed, they wove
through Otto's jumbled belongings until they reached the treasure box against
the back wall.Sally brandished the
rough little file and then poked it in the keyhole.Immediately, it jammed tight and they
couldn't get it unstuck.After several
more futile attempts to free it, Pitty Paw silently went to fetch help.

In a few minutes, she returned with Jacko, Harold's right
paw rat.Jacko silently studied the
problem before worming around in the dust bunnies until he was flat on his back
with his powerful hind legs pressing against the file."You two brace me so I don't slide all
over," he directed a bit breathlessly."I'll push on three.One…two…three!"Jacko lashed
out with both hind paws.There was a
faint ping before the file when flying off into the darkness.

Sally sighed."Bother.Thank you,
Jacko.I'll just go see if I can locate the
stupid thing so I can try again.Next
time, I'll try not to get it jammed."

"Hold up there," Harold whispered loudly behind
them."We found a key."He dragged it up to the treasure box and
dropped it with a faint clank."Try
this, Sally."

She clutched the key in her tiny paws and carefully
inserted it into the keyhole."It
fits." Jacko helped her maneuver
the key back and forth until they heard a tiny click and the lock sprang
free.The lid tilted up revealing a
narrow gap.

Harold tilted his head and peered into the box."I see the money bundles.Let's drag one out so we can get this
done."They huffed and puffed and
tugged and pushed and pulled and it was all in vain.The box lid, jammed against the bottom of the
bed, wouldn't open any further.There
just wasn't enough clearance to extract one of the thick bundles of money.

Pitty Paw crouched down with her head on her paws and
thought."Do we need the entire
bundle?" she asked.

They all stared at each other for a few moments before
Harold shrugged."I don't think
so.What's your idea?"

Pitty Paw crept forward, grasped the tattered green pile
of bills poking out through the opening with her sharp teeth, and yanked.There was an ominous ripping noise, and
abruptly, she crouched in front of them with a mouthful of money, sticking out
in all directions like so much lettuce.She spat it out with a grimace and poked it in Harold's direction with
her nose."There is the money.Now what do we do?"

Sally and Jacko gathered up the money while Harold
scampered back to the bathroom to work out the next steps.By the time they crawled out from under the
bed, Siggy was trotting across the room with Otto's red and green coat clutched
in his mouth.He dumped it on the bed
across Otto's feet and went back for Otto's hat.When she saw that Siggy couldn't shake the
hat loose from the hook where it hung, Sally skittered up the coat tree, pushed
the hat until it teetered on the very edge and then flicked it once with her fluffy
tail.

Seconds later, they all stood around trying to stifle
their laughter because the hat landed squarely on Siggy's head, slumping down
over his ears and one black eye.His damp
black nose poked out from under the brim.He sniffed and tossed his head, dislodging the hat.

In a very few minutes they had everything arranged so
that they were ready to make the important call to 911.Sally tipped the phone off the hook and
methodically poked at the numbers with her tiny fisted paw.Shortly, the operator answered and Siggy
began to bark…

By the time the first police car responded, Siggy was
nearly hoarse.The officer quickly
called in a request for an ambulance.While it was enroute, he noticed the animals, all sitting in a composed
little group next to the bed.Keeping
his eyes on them, he called out to his partner, "Joe?Come in here for a second."

Joe poked his head inside and demanded, "What?I'm trying to talk to the guy that lives
across the road."

"Look at the animals, Joe.When have you ever seen a bunch like this all
together?A dog, a cat, two rats, four
squirrels and three chipmunks--all together in a little group.They aren't acting like they're afraid of us,
either."

While the two officers watched, Sally climbed up on the
foot of the bed and sat next to the bright red cowboy hat.Tilting her head to one side as though to
say, "Well?", she waited for them to make a move.

Cautiously, Officer Joe slowly approached and lifted the
hat.He turned it in his hands, noting
the name printed in the hat band."Mike, I think this guy is that Christmas Angel that hands out
money every Christmas.You know the one
that gives away fifty dollar bills down in the projects?"

"This guy?"Mike scoffed at the very idea."He's just some bum."

"I don't think so.The name in this hat is Otto McKenzie."

"Otto McKenzie?What would a millionaire be doing in a dump like this?"Mike held out his hand for the hat so he
could see for himself.

Joe handed over the hat and pushed back his own hat,
scratching his ear in thought."I
seem to remember reading that McKenzie walked out of his headquarters one day
and just disappeared.There was
something about him resigning because of unethical business practices by his
board of directors.He turned them into
the SEC and most of them went to jail."

"Well, if he's really McKenzie and also the
Christmas Angel, I guess we know where the money came from.Wasn't there a special program on TV not too
long ago about him?I think his children
have been searching for him.I'll bet
this will make for a real happy Christmas for them."Mike heard the sirens approaching and went to
direct the EMTs.In the hustle and
bustle of getting Otto ready for the ambulance, the officers lost track of the
animals.When they finally had a few
minutes to close up the little house, the animals were no where to be
found.

Both officers looked very carefully before conceding that
the animals were gone, but when they had locked up and returned to their patrol
car, they both agreed that there was something very odd about the little group.They acted like Otto McKenzie's guardian
angels.

From their observation point, deep in a bush at the
corner of the little house, the animals watched the patrol car slowly move down
the gravel road.

"Otto will be alright, now," Harold declared
with satisfaction."We did a good
job.His family will appreciate him now
and be glad to have him home."

"Well,"
Pitty Paw observed thoughtfully."I
hope on the next assignment God gives us, we get to have hands."

Friday, December 4, 2015

For those who follow my blog, you know I post several Christmas
Vignettes from my past throughout the month of December. Mostly, I do it
to remind myself of all the blessings I've been given through the
years.

Christmas 1979. That was the year we
stretched the budget to get the kids’ bicycles. At our house, Santa
always brings a stuffed animal. It was my feeling that Santa bringing
tons of presents sets up kids for unrealistic expectations. No matter
how the year goes, a stuffed animal is always doable. And after that,
whatever Mom and Dad can come up with is great.

My kids had a realistic idea of our money situation from the time we sat
them down and let them pay the bills with real money. My house hunk had
his check cashed at the bank in $1 bills. Then we sat down with the
kids and let them count out the money for each bill. We did that for six
weeks. If there was any money left over after the bills we let them do
the grocery shopping with a calculator and count out the money for the
food.

After that when we said there was no money, they understood that
reality. To this day, they’re all very good managers. This particular
Christmas was important to us as a family as the previous Christmas had
been very, very bad. We didn’t have a lot of money, but there was a bit
more than usual so we decided that we could afford to buy bicycles.

Of course when your kids are pre-teen age, hiding bicycles is a pretty
tricky proposition. Finally, we simply made the garage off-limits. Late
Christmas Eve the house hunk and I were out there trying to assemble
three bicycles. The store would have assembled them, but that cost money
that we couldn’t afford. One needed training wheels. Things did not go
well.

Around 2 AM, the door opened and my second son trotted out there with
his hands in his pockets. First of all, I was startled that he was still
dressed. And then of course I demanded to know why he was awake.

“Well,” he said, “I thought I would see how long it took you to put them
together. But it’s late. I’m tired. And I would like to ride my bike
tomorrow. So I gave up. Do you want me to put them together?”

His father handed him the wrenches. “If you think you can do better than
we are, go for it.” Thirty minutes later all three bikes were assembled
and parked by the tree.

My son was nine years old that Christmas. Until he left for the Navy, it
was always his responsibility to assemble all the gifts marked “Some
Assembly Required.”

Want to know more?

Anny Cook

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Reader, author, wife, parent and grandmother, Anny Cook fits it all in her busy life. Now officially retired, she started writing in 2005 when she found herself at loose ends after yet another move. To date she has twenty-three published titles ranging from a Quickie, Everything Lovers Can Know to a plus novel, Shadows on Stone. She has three series—Mystic Valley, Flowers of Camelot, and Tuatha Treasures.